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“You’re a brat,” he breathes out, seething. “A self-absorbed, snobby, little brat!”
“I’m not! I’m just…”
I stop myself, scowling and looking away. Goddammit. Goddamn him. I’m not a brat. I’m…
“You’re just what?” he demands. “Huh?”
I’m not spoiled. Tears burn my eyes, and my chin shakes. I don’t care about luxury. Or money. I’m not unfriendly because they live here and live differently. That’s not it. I’m just…
“Just what?” he shouts again. “So quiet now, aren’t you?”
“Dad…” Noah says somewhere from the kitchen.
But I can’t see him. My uncle crowds me, and I can’t stop the tears from pooling.
“I’m not…”
I swallow, no idea what to say. No idea what my problem is. He’s right, right? Any polite—normal—person would be able to converse casually. Engage in small talk. Ask them questions. Smile, joke around…
I shake my head, more to myself than him, murmuring, “I’m just… not used to…”
“To what?” he bites out. “Rules? A spending limit? Small closet space?”
A tear falls, and it takes everything to keep the sob bottled up.
“Chores of any kind?” he continues. “What is so godawful different in this house compared to yours? What are you so not used to?”
“People,” I blurt out.
I don’t know when I figured it out, but it just comes out.
He’s right. I have no idea how to be with people.
Tears fall, spilling down my face as I stare at the floor.
“I’m not used to people,” I whisper. “They don’t talk to me at home.”
He doesn’t speak, and I can’t hear the boys making any movements either, the silence making the room feel smaller.
I raise my eyes, no longer caring that he can see my red eyes and wet face. “No one talks to me.”
And before he can say anything, I run up the stairs, desperate to get in my bedroom and away from their eyes. I lock the door and fall back on the bed, covering my eyes with my arms to stop the tears.
God, why did I do that? What a fucking basket case. He’s going to send me home now because I’m emotional and too much work.
&nb
sp; I cry quietly into my arm.
I shouldn’t have done that. I never fight with anyone, but I would fight before I’d ever cry. It’s a weak person’s tactic to end an argument. It’s not a fair fight when someone starts blubbering.
Aw, look at the poor, little rich girl. Her mommy and daddy let her have anything she wanted, but they didn’t hold her hand or kiss and hug her every day. Poor baby.
Now they’ll just see me as even less than they did before. Fragile. Easy to break. A problem to tiptoe around.
How many kids would’ve happily lived with my parents if it meant they were being fed and clothed every day? I have everything, and I just broke in front of them over nothing.
Everyone should be as lucky as I am.
